Though I dread the initiating of it, walking in the dark can be magical. Was it Monday when I walked along the Prom round from the harbour and saw them? They were fluttering and rushing forth in the wind, a huge wave of orange sparks. It caught my breath. It was a fire. Someone, a man in black was stoking an immense fire against one of the stone groynes. The smell, the cracking, the yellow, fiery flickers – it was like something from some kind of gorgeous hell. It was wondrous. And then there was the police van that I followed along South Road, only to see it parked ahead of me, and to see the policeman through the window standing in the lounge of one of the students’ houses. I know the house. I often look in, captivated by the idea of having a pool table, as they do, in the living room. The officer was standing, jacket off, bullet-proof vest left on, his arms crossed looking down on a student who was sprawled on the sofa, a large plaster stuck to his forehead. Had he called 999? It was his bodily insolence that struck me. Had someone shopped him? We will never know.
